


the grip of the soil

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian has a difficult time letting some things go, Fluff, Here Lies the Abyss quest spoilers, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Schmoop, boyfriends taking nosedives off of crumbling ancient fortresses might be one of them, main plot spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It must be exhaustion - the bone deep sort that drags a body down after endless days of travel preceding and following, say, a siege upon an entire keep of Grey Wardens and a nightmare-slaughtering jaunt through the Fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the grip of the soil

**Author's Note:**

> Here Lies the Abyss quest spoilers. Vague, brief ones, but they're there.

”I‘m still angry with you,” Dorian says crossly as he stalks across the room, yanking off elaborate straps and buckles as he goes. He hits Adaar‘s bed like a lead weight and wriggles out of what remaining clothing he‘s got left before burrowing himself under the blankets and against Adaar‘s side.

They had spoken of it that afternoon, only briefly after settling back in between all the execution and pardoning and the bureaucracy - that Adaar would allow himself to be led from room to room handing out executions, writing reports, constantly plotting three steps ahead before he‘d even spared himself time enough to be thoroughly examined by a healer only ignites Dorian‘s rancour further, so he does not dwell on it. Much.

For his part, Adaar doesn‘t raise any sort of protest against Dorian's wrath. If he couldn't earlier, why would he now? Dorian is in the right. If that alone weren‘t enough, he‘s been run ragged all day with no sign of stopping once since the return from Adamant. It must be exhaustion - the bone deep sort that drags a body down after endless days of travel preceding and following, say, a siege upon a keep of Grey Wardens and a nightmare-slaughtering jaunt through the Fade. In truth, Dorian never expected him to say much in his own defense here, which makes chastising him all the easier.

Instead, Adaar cups a hand ‘round the back of Dorian’s neck and squeezes once, gently. He‘d probably thought their earlier conversation would be the last he‘d hear of this. He‘d thought wrong.

”In my experience, people who are angry at other people prefer to keep their distance,” Adaar rumbles, pressing his mouth to Dorian‘s temple. Regardless of his lingering indignation, Dorian takes a moment to be glad he thought to bathe before joining the Inquisitor in his chambers. It simply wouldn‘t have given the proper impression if he cozied up in his large-and-grey worship‘s bed still reeking of sweat and Fade swamp. “Or charge at me with very sharp, pointy things.”

”My tongue is sharper than any blade,” Dorian insists, closes his eyes when the simple touch of Adaar‘s mouth parts and presses with intent, becomes something more like a kiss.

”I won‘t contest that.”

”No, you would not be in any position to at the moment lest you wish to earn more of my righteous fury.”

”And I do not.”

Dorian sweeps a palm over Adaar‘s chest, broad as the Hinterlands and carrying within itself a heart more precious than all of the lyrium in Minrathous. He sighs.

”I _suppose_ I could find it somewhere within my deep reserves of mercy to forgive you,” Dorian says, idly tracing the dip of Adaar‘s collar bone. ”Providing you allow me one very meager condition.”

Adaar makes a noncommittal noise.

”I know what _that_ means - you‘re practically begging me to continue. You like the sound of my voice almost as much as I do. Very well, it does not suit you to beg so.” He flattens his palm over the dull, thudding beat of Adaar‘s heart. ”I will forgive this one slight if you give me your word to never put yourself in the line of danger again. Drop this Inquisition nonsense while the getting‘s good. I hear Rivain is lovely this time of year, and you‘ll just _love_ what the sun does for my complexion.”

The grunt is a little more breathy now, more like laughter.

”You think I jest! Well, we‘ll see how funny you find it when we play a rousing game of Find the Tevinter‘s Freckles. If you find them all, there is a round two - _infinitely_ more rousing than the first.”

”Drop the Inquisition,” Adaar repeats.

”It‘s more of a hobby for you anyway, is it not?”

”By all means,” Adaar says in the midst of a rather warm yawn. ”But you get to tell Cassandra I‘m retiring.”

“There are kinder ways to tell me you want me dead, my darling. Surely you‘ve collected some of them in your travels.”

Adaar‘s hand leaves the back of Dorian‘s neck to rest over the back of his splayed hand. A staff-callused palm brushes over his knuckles, and Dorian lifts his fingers so that Adaar can slot his own between them, pressing Dorian's hand securely between his own and the steady thump of his heart.

”Are you open to compromise?” Adaar asks quietly, and Dorian feels it too, suddenly hushed in the quiet of Adaar‘s sanctuary, tucked beneath the veneer of safety offered by pretty blankets and the presence of one another.

”What a diplomatic way to tell me you aren‘t going to cater to my every whim without any hint of struggle.”

”See this through with me to the very end,” Adaar murmurs, thumb stroking compelling lines up and down Dorian's forefinger, ”and when that day comes, I will take you anywhere you‘d like to go.”

Dorian hums in thought. ”Anywhere, truly? Even someplace dreadfully boring, with no demon infestation or darkspawn or red templars or,” and here he shudders, ” _Vivienne‘s appraisal_ to speak of?”

”Even there,” Adaar promises.

”Do not lie to _me_ , _amatus_. I know you thrive off of danger. You think I don‘t know you were a mercenary before you became Andraste's own herald? You could not content yourself with a life of quiet retirement on some sunny shore a thousand miles from the pulse of the nearest cataclysm.”

”Maybe,” Adaar mumbles, his fingers twitching in between Dorian‘s. ”But I could content myself with you.”

The fire cracks and pops merrily across the room. Dorian is grateful for the privacy offered by the dark, shadowed line of Adaar's neck; there are only so many dreadfully vulnerable expressions he can share in one day.

”Now, really,” Dorian weakly admonishes. ”How is that fair? I‘m meant to be very cross with you right now. I demand you stop making it so difficult.”

Now that was undoubtedly a kiss pressed to his temple, and another along the crown of his head, and one to the daisy-fresh thick of his hair.

”I will try.“ Adaar yawns again, and finally, Dorian takes pity.

”Go to sleep before I let Cassandra knock you out as I should have the moment we returned,” he scolds, locking an ankle around Adaar‘s calf. ”This serves as fair warning, but I may have to eviscerate anyone who comes calling before tomorrow noon. That‘s how long you‘ll stay right here. I‘ll take your silence as acquiescence, but your protests will serve just as well.

”Dorian,” Adaar grunts, but he is on his way to half asleep, which means Dorian‘s job is on its way to half done.

Dorian closes his own eyes and sighs. ”I will hold you to that promise,” he proclaims to the Inquisitor not moments later, when he is deep in the Fade once more in only the most appropriate sense -in a way no nightmare can physically claw and scrape at him and try to rip him from Dorian‘s side. ”Yes, the moment we‘ve squared this nasty business away, it‘s off to the land of pirates for us. We‘ll be seers, you and I. Revered for our skill and incomparable good looks. Or..." He squeezes the lax fingers between his own, but only for a moment. "Anonymous. That could work, too. No more House Pavus, no more Inquisitor. Just Delightful Foreign Dorian and his very, very large lover from across the sea. Ooh, I like that. I should propose it when you‘re conscious to appreciate it. We have time enough for that now, after all.”

He smiles wryly into the curve of Adaar‘s shoulder, spares a moment to send a fleeting little word of thanks to the Maker, wherever He may be. “We have time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “Sawdust and Diamonds” by Joanna Newsom: _And though it may be madness, I will take to the grave your precious long face. And though our bones they may break, and our souls separate - why the long face? And though our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil - why the long face?_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


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